“Firefly?” except for the star on her forehead, Trish would have doubted the rough-coated animal was really her filly. “Firefly?” At the second call the horse pricked her ears and raised her drooping head an inch or so.
Trish crossed the room to stand by the horse’s head. “Oh, my girl, what have they done to you?” She smoothed the filly’s forelock and rubbed the slack ears. Firefly leaned her head into Trish’s arms and sighed.
Trish wrinkled her nose at the odor of decay that rose like a miasma around her. The smell was only dimmed by the disinfectants used by the hospital. The filly’s broken foreleg sported a cast from hoof to shoulder. She’d lost enough weight that even the cast gaped at the top and her ribs stuck out. The gallant spirit that usually beamed from her eyes had gone into hiding.
Trish murmured encouraging words into the filly’s ears, all the while agonizing over the deterioration. Could they pull Firefly out of this? Or would it really be better to put her out of her misery?
She felt the doctor by her side before she heard him. “I had planned to prepare you. I know seeing her like this is a shock.”
“Umm.” Trish continued rubbing the filly’s face. “How long since she’s eaten or had anything to drink?”
“We keep offering but she refuses. I’d have to check the exact times.” He retrieved a metal chart holder from its slot on the wall and returned to her side. He flipped the pages. “Hmm. Two days ago. And she hasn’t urinated for eighteen hours, so her kidneys may be shutting down.”
“Is that why you said on television last night that you might have to put her down?”
“That wasn’t exactly what I said. However, you have to admit that’s a strong possibility.”
“I don’t have to admit anything.” Trish squared her shoulders but winced when she took a deep breath. Why is it people are so ready to give up? “She’ll listen to me and do what I say. Can you get me some warm mash with molasses in it and a bucket of warm water?” She glanced around the room, looking for further inspiration.
“We’ve already—” The doctor cut off his sentence. “Of course.” He and Marge left in deep discussion.
Trish winced when the filly rubbed against her chest. “Easy, girl. That hurts.” A stool in the corner caught her attention. But when she moved away, Firefly flung her head in the air and started thrashing around. Trish halted in midstride and spun back to the filly’s side. “Easy, easy. You know better than that.” Her words and hands worked their magic, but not before the horse’s sides heaved in an attempt to draw in sufficient air.
A medical assistant entered the room carrying two stainless steel buckets. “Doctor Grant said to bring you these.” She set the buckets down with a clang and tucked a lock of blond hair behind her left ear. “Is there any way I can help you?”
Trish smiled in relief. “Sure. See that stool over there? If I could sit down, I’d be more comfortable. Firefly had a fit when I tried to leave.”
“Of course. By the way, my name is Kim. You’ve been my idol ever since last spring when I watched you win the Derby on Spitfire. What a race!” She carried the stool to Trish while talking.
“Thanks.” Trish sat down with a sigh she tried to stifle. “You have a shallow pan or dish anywhere, something I can hold on my lap?”
Kim studied her for a moment. “I’ll find something.”
While she waited, Trish dipped a handful of water out of the bucket and held it up to the filly’s lips. After a second, Firefly lapped the water, slopping some on the floor and more on Trish. At least she was trying. Trish felt the thrill of it tingle clear out to her fingertips. Firefly would try for her.
She dipped into the warm mash and held that under the filly’s nose. Firefly turned her head away, but when Trish coaxed her again, the horse finally nibbled at the feed.
Dr. Grant returned to stand off to the side. “Drinking is the most important,” he said in a hushed tone. He handed her a nearly flat container. Trish poured water into it and drew Firefy’s head over so her nose rested in it. Again the filly lapped the water, as if normal drinking were more effort than she could afford. After continued pats and murmurs from Trish, the pan gleamed empty.
“Thank you, God,” Marge said softly.
Trish heard her. “Ditto.” She dug out a handful of mash and offered it to Firefly. That too disappeared.
“Well, I’ll be. Guess those rumors of your gift with horses are true after all.” Dr. Grant rocked back on his heels. “Anytime you want to come on staff here, you’re welcome. When we tried force-feeding that horse, she went nuts.” He turned to his assistant. “Right, Kim?”
“Yeah. I was the one who took a whop on the nose.” She rubbed the bridge of her ski-jump nose. “I bled like a stuck hog.”
Trish offered the filly another pan of water. This time only half of the liquid disappeared. “She likes it better warm.”
Kim left to heat the water.
“I left a message for Patrick. He’s probably at the track.” Marge came to stand by Trish’s shoulder. “He’ll call here with any suggestions he has.”
By late afternoon, Trish felt as if she’d been run over by a herd of wild horses. Her ribs ached, her head pounded, and she could have fallen asleep on the stool. But she didn’t dare move. Marge brought her a hamburger, fries, and Diet Coke when she complained of a growling stomach.
Every few minutes she offered the filly food and water. Sometimes Firefly took them, but more often she didn’t. In between tries, the horse dozed, head down. The sound of her breathing paced Trish’s own. When the filly coughed, Trish felt the spasm in her own chest.
When Kim wheeled in an office chair with padded back and arms, Trish smiled gratefully. “Can you take my place, Kim, while I go to the bathroom?” She stood and stretched carefully.
Firefly raised her head. She snorted when Kim sat down on the stool. When Trish backed away the filly nickered. Her hooves rapped a tattoo on the rubber mat, which set the sling to swinging from side to side.
“Stop her! She’ll hurt herself!” Kim leaped to the filly’s head just in time to take a slam on the chin.
Chapter
03
Kim blinked and shook her head to chase away the stars. She hung on to the horse’s halter. “Easy, girl. Come on, you’ve been doing so well.” The filly jerked back and flung her head from side to side.
Trish took Kim’s place at the filly’s head. “Come on, old girl. I gotta go.” Firefly calmed, her head tight against Trish as if locking her into place.
Kim and Trish stared at each other. “What’ll we do?” Kim pulled back the stool and sank down on it, rubbing her chin at the same time. “She’ll hurt herself again, flailing like that.”
“What’s happening?” Dr. Grant rushed into the room. At the look of shock on Trish’s face, he grinned at her. “No, I’m not omniscient. We have a monitoring system so we can keep track of the animals when we aren’t in the room with them. Much like the ones parents use with babies.”
“Oh.” Trish tried to think if she’d said anything she didn’t want overheard.
“So she has a temper tantrum when you try to leave, huh?”
Trish nodded. “Guess I’ll have to spend the night with her too.”
Marge groaned. “I knew it. You’re not going to follow the doctor’s orders one bit.”
Trish continued stroking the filly. What could they do? At least she’d been able to leave Spitfire in the care of others, though he had tossed any rider besides Trish. Were these two opinionated horses related—or what?
The vet whispered in Kim’s ear and, after nodding to the others, left the room. Kim followed him out.
Trish sank back down on the stool, wondering how they were going to handle this. In a few minutes Kim returned with a folding screen, which she set up near the chair. The filly never even flicked a whisker. A bit later another one of the helpers brought in a folding chair with a hole in the seat.
Kim whispered in Trish’s ear. “Your
rest room awaits—including a window for your friend here so she can see you at all times.”
Trish heard a chuckle from behind her. Only her mother laughed like that.
Trish shot her giggling parent a severe look. “You better never tell anyone about this or I’ll—I’ll…” She couldn’t say any more. Trying to keep from laughing when your ribs ache and you have to go made other actions downright impossible.
Sometime later the helper brought in another chair, one that folded out into a bed.
“That looks familiar,” Marge said, “although that certainly wasn’t what I’d planned for this night. I rented a perfectly good bed for you at the motel.” She stopped Trish’s sputter with a raised hand. “I know you can’t leave—I don’t expect it—but don’t gripe when you need to wash your hair again.”
Trish shot her mother an exasperated look. She was glad someone could find some humor in the situation.
Kim hung another bottle on the IV hook before leaving for the night. “I’ll see you in the morning. John is on night duty this week, so if you need anything, he’s the one who’ll respond. Red Holloran called and said he’d be here about seven. Wish I could stay—he’s about my favorite jockey—but I have class tonight.” She looked around at the collection of bedding, the chairs, and the card table where Trish could study and eat. At the moment Trish was encouraging Firefly to drink some more from the shallow basin.
“Thanks for all your help.” Trish looked over her shoulder and smiled. “You gotta admit this hasn’t been your usual case.”
“Well, if you can just get her to pee, we’ll all celebrate. She’s got a good chance then—if we can clear up the infection and keep her away from pneumonia, that is.”
By the time Red and Marge left that night, Trish felt like collapsing on the bed that was now ready for her weary body. Instead she held out the water pan one more time. “Come on, girl, you gotta drink. Patrick says we’re doing all we can. Healthy horses need gallons of water a day, you know. And you’re running a fever, so you need even more. How will you ever get to go home if you don’t drink?”
But Firefly just turned her head, her eyes drooping shut.
Trish crawled between the sheets on the makeshift bed. Things certainly weren’t going according to plan—her plan anyway. She watched the filly dozing in the dim light. “Please, God,” she whispered, “you’re the only one who can help her now. I don’t know how many prayers you get to help a horse pee, but that’s what we need most right now—that and making her all well again. That infection is really bad. My dad said you care about everything that concerns us, and this sure scares me.” The filly snorted and coughed, a dry hacking sound that made Trish’s throat hurt just listening. “Thanks for listening and for making me better too. Amen.”
She knew she’d hear every sound the filly made. It looked to be a long night ahead. About midnight, she gingerly sat up, her muscles warning her she’d had better ideas in her life. Moving slowly and stretching with great care, she scooted the stool back beside Firefly and, after filling the basin from the Thermos, she held it up for the filly to drink.
“Good girl.” Trish set the nearly empty basin on the floor and rubbed the filly’s ears. “You did great.” Firefly rested her muzzle on Trish’s knees and let her eyes close.
“You two all right?” John Adams, with skin as black as his lab coat shone white, crossed from the door on silent feet. He moved with the easy presence of one used to calming sick animals, and he spoke in the same soothing tone Trish’s father had taught her to use.
Firefly didn’t even open her eyes, just flicked one ear.
“She drank about a quart that time. That’s the most so far.”
“Ah’m glad for you, little lady. She wouldn’t drink anything for me.” He put his stethoscope in his ears and applied the round end to the filly’s ribs and chest. “Thank God her lungs are still clear. That’s a miracle in itself.” He stroked the rough hair under the horse’s limp mane. “She’s gone through a lot. Last night I wouldn’ta given her half a chance, but now?” He shrugged. “Who knows? You call out if you need anything. The monitors are always on.”
Trish crawled back in bed after he left the room. Part of her prayer was being answered. “Thanks, God. Please keep it up.”
The sound of splattering water woke her the next time. John burst through the door as Trish catapulted from her bed. “She’s peeing! Firefly, you beautiful doll, you. You peed!” Trish ignored the complaining from her rib cage and wrapped both arms around the horse’s neck.
“Thank God for big blessings,” John murmured while he checked the filly again. “Looks like her kidneys are back in production and we’re on the right track. Hallelujah.” He poured water in the basin and pointed to the stool so Trish could sit and hold it. Firefly drained it, then drank another half. When she raised her head, she snorted drops of water all over Trish.
“Yeah, I know I need a shower, but that wasn’t the kind I had in mind.” Trish handed the basin back to John and rubbed the star on Firefly’s forehead. “Keep up the good work, girl, and we might get home before Christmas yet.”
Everyone came by to cheer them on as the good news passed from person to person when they came to work in the morning. Firefly was on the mend. No one even mentioned the idea of her worsening again.
Trish fought back a lump in her throat at the caring the staff exhibited for both her and the filly. If any of her horses ever again needed surgery, she knew where she’d want it to be done.
Three days later Firefly’s temperature was near normal, and she was eating and drinking as if to make up for lost time.
“I think you can take some time off now, Trish,” Dr. Grant said on his late-afternoon check. “She’s much calmer.”
“I sure could do with a shower.…”
“I know—and wash your hair. I have a fifteen-year-old daughter at home. Our water bill doubled when she discovered showers and clean hair.”
“Yeah, my dad said he was grateful we had well water when David and I turned teenagers.” Trish continued stroking her filly. Firefly especially loved rubs all around her ears.
Kim took over the rubbing duty when Trish eased out the door. The filly snorted once and then leaned into Trish’s substitute. Trish breathed a sigh of relief. She’d begun to feel as if she were being held captive—by a sick horse no less. One good thing—she’d gotten all her homework caught up, even the latest assignments her teachers had mailed.
Two days later, after a checkup with the surgeon, she and her mother drove east on the highway to Lexington and BlueMist Farms.
“Now, I hope you don’t plan on riding Spitfire while we’re there.” Marge broke into Trish’s half doze.
“Umm…ah…” What could Trish say? She’d just been dreaming about cantering Spitfire around the tree-rimmed track at BlueMist.
“You know what the doctor said.”
“Umpfm.” So much for being a heroine who saved her dying horse. Now she was back to being Trish, daughter of a mother who thought all doctors’ orders were just that—orders. Trish liked to consider them more in the line of suggestions—to be followed if convenient.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Spitfire’ll think I don’t love him anymore.”
“Right.”
Trish gazed out at the fields criss-crossed by black board fences. On the crest of the rise, a horse barn with three cupolas stood silhouetted against the blue sky. What would it be like to own a farm here? she thought. Such a difference between my part of the country and this. She closed her eyes to see Spitfire in one of the paddocks, one owned by her. Then she could ride whenever she wanted to—and see the great black colt every day.
“Just visiting is the pits.”
“Sorry. Maybe you can come back over Christmas break.” Marge eased up on the accelerator for the turn into BlueMist. “I know one thing, I need to get home. Bookwork is piling up, and leaving Patrick with all the work just isn’t fair.”
Now it was Marge’s turn to agree. “I’ll call for a flight—on the condition that you do what the doctor said.”
Trish slapped down the thought that leaped into her mind. Yes, she’d act like a responsible grown-up and mind the doctor—no matter how much it hurt. But oh, to sneak off and ride just for a few minutes. To feel her horse surging beneath her, hear his snorts as he fought the bit, wanting to run full out as badly or worse than she did, the clean smell of fall overlaid with sweaty horse—that was what she wanted.
And what she couldn’t have. She loosened her seat belt before the car had come to a full stop in the parking lot by the stallion barn. At the same moment as she opened the car door, her three-toned whistle lifted into the breeze.
A hesitant whinny, as if Spitfire didn’t really believe he heard right, answered her. Trish whistled again. This time the colt whistled back, a full-throated stallion’s call. He neighed again, the sound lifting and winging its way to Trish, a joyous song of welcome.
Trish took two steps into a trot and thought the better of it. Even whistling hurt her insides—along with the outside.
“Welcome back, lass.” Timmy O’Ryan, Spitfire’s personal groom and handler, held the door open for her with one hand, tipping his porkpie hat in greeting with the other. “Himself isn’t being very patient, but I’m sure that’s no surprise to ye.”
“Thanks, Timmy, I couldn’t wait to see him either.” Trish crossed the wide-planked floor in a rush. “Hey, fella, it hasn’t been that long since I saw you.”
Spitfire leaned against the blue web gate, stretching his neck and muzzle out as far as possible to reach her. His nostrils quivered in a soundless nicker, his ears nearly touching at the tips.
Trish brushed his long, thick forelock to the side before wrapping both arms around his neck. Then she turned and let him drape his head over her shoulder, his favorite pose in all the world. Who knew which of their sighs was greater, or more heartfelt? Trish felt them both clear down to the tips of her tennies.
Golden Filly Collection Two Page 53